


Démolir

by NnoitraSzayel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2179827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NnoitraSzayel/pseuds/NnoitraSzayel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Condemned, read a sign outside of a building on Baker Street. On an old favour, the 63 year old John Watson, after having signed a waver, had been allowed into the building one last time before it was torn down..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Démolir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> first published September 21, 2011

_Condemned,_ read a sign outside of a building on Baker Street. On an old favour, the 63 year old John Watson, after having signed a waiver, had been allowed into the building one last time before it was torn down. He stood in front of the rusted refrigerator in the kitchen of 221B. He knew that if he opened it, there would be no severed head to greet him as there once was. There was no need to go and get milk or jam to fill it, either. Leaning heavily on his cane, John went into what used to be a sitting room, but was now empty. Under a layer of wallpaper that was put up after his time, a faded yellow smilie face and more than several bullet holes still called the wall home. He touched a wrinkled and shaking hand to one of them. What he would give to be with the man who had put them there…

He turned towards the wall with the fireplace in it, his wasted face reflecting back in the in the shards of the mirror that miraculously still hung there. He could almost remember the exact placement of some of the setups Sherlock would make to help solve the cases. John could even remember the spot where the skull used to sit, cold and dusty now.

John limped out of the sitting room and through the doorway of what used to be the bedroom. Their bedroom. The room was empty, covered in a fine layer of dust and dirt. It gave away none of the things its former inhabitants used to do in the room. If John closed his eyes, he could picture where all of the furniture used to be. He could almost feel the warmth of Sherlock’s arms around him as they lay in bed together. It had been a very long time since the two of them had seen each other, let alone slept in the same bed. That ended the night Lestrade had pulled him away from the scene, one that Sherlock had insisted on going alone to, and telling him that it would be inadvisable to go in there. When John had asked why he couldn’t go in and see Sherlock, he was told that Sherlock would not be recognizable… that the man they had been chasing had also been a pre-med student. They had shot Sherlock in the chest and then opened his skull and removed his brain. They had taken the two things that made Sherlock who he was to John: his heart and his mind. John had been left alone after that. He had dutifully sent off most of Sherlock’s possessions to his mother and brother. John had only kept the skull and a collection of the works of Edgar Allan Poe, corrections and even a few of Sherlock’s precious thoughts scribbled in the margins. His scarf had been ruined, and after the investigation was closed, it burned with his body. The ashes had gone to his mother, but when she died a few years later, they went to Mycroft. John had long since stopped waiting for the day when they would come into his possession. After all, if he could pretend the skull knew what he was saying, then he would probably imagine the urn talking back to him in the same manner that Sherlock would have spoken.

John opened his eyes to the sight of the empty room, and it took quite a bit of effort to blink back the tears that threatened to fall. Half leaning on his cane, half leaning on the wall, John remembered how Sherlock, who always knew what he was going to say, had so hesitantly spoken the three words that John never thought he would hear.

John’s chest tightened, and he turned away from the empty room. The memories came flooding back, intending to pull him under and drown him. With one hand on the wall and the other on his cane, he left the dusty rooms of 221B behind for the street. He asked one of the construction workers what time it was coming down and was told that it would happen the next morning.

John hailed a cab and went back to his small flat. He knew what he had to do.

xxx

Unlocking the door, John walked towards his bedroom, bypassing the kitchen completely. He went straight for the locked drawer where he kept most valuable possessions. Fumbling a few times with the key, he got it open, revealing the book, the skull, and his old gun. Carefully, he removed the skull and the book before shutting it. John didn’t bother to lock the drawer again. He wouldn’t be coming back after tonight, so it didn’t matter.

Careful not to drop to skull, John carried his two items into the kitchen and set them on the counter. Looking up towards his next destination, the fridge, he noticed a cylinder sitting innocently on the counter with a piece of paper attached to it.

Limping over warily, he removed the piece of paper from it. On the front it merely said _John._ He opened it and held the paper close to his face because he didn’t have his reading glasses handy. Reading it revealed the cryptic message: _He needs you more than he ever needed me. - M_

John was puzzled. Who was this “he” and who was M? John’s eyes traveled up to the cylinder again, and suddenly he realized he was being stupid. M was Mycroft... and that meant that the cylinder was really Sherlock. John picked up the urn and held it close to himself, much like a child holds a teddy bear during a bad thunder storm. John didn’t put Sherlock down once as he took a carton of milk and a jar of jam from the fridge. He got an old shopping bag and put the book, milk, jam, and skull into it.

John spent the few hours he had to wait sitting on the sofa with Sherlock; just starting at the urn. It had been so long, and John just couldn’t find the words to say what he wanted. When the sky grew dark, John put the bag over his shoulder and held Sherlock tightly to his chest using the arm that wasn’t holding his cane. John didn’t bother to lock the flat; he would never be returning.

xxx

John took a cab to a restaurant on the block just before Baker Street. It wouldn’t arise any suspicions, and John could easily make the short walk.

Still holding Sherlock and carrying the bag, he limped over to 221B. Once he reached the security tape warning civilians against entering, he looked around. It appeared that no one was watching, so he disregarded the tape and reentered the building much as he had earlier that day. John took Sherlock up the stairs slowly and carried him to their old room. John set down the bag and carefully set Sherlock down on the floor. They were in the same general area where the bed had been in when they had lived there.

John let his cane drop, and he slowly sat himself on the floor. He knew that he would not be able to get up afterwards. Once on the floor, John unloaded the bag, carefully lining up the four items where they would have been placed if there were a bedside table. Not caring about the dust or bugs, John lay down on the floor, pulling the urn that contained Sherlock into his arms. It was cold, but it was still Sherlock.

Closing his eyes to the world one last time, John knew that he was going to go down with this building, and he wouldn’t settle for anything less than that. He had everything that was important, and he was ready to find out if he would get to see Sherlock again.

John was no longer afraid.

xxx

Morning came. No one searched the building before knocking it to the ground. However, the spot where Sherlock and John’s old bedroom used to be would not come down, and they had no choice but to leave it there. The former room was empty, and the rubble contained no traces of John, the urn, or any of the other four items John had brought…

All those who looked could not see the bed in which a much younger John and Sherlock lay. The skull and book sat on the night stand with milk, jam, and toast. That was all the sleeping couple would ever need again.

The world’s only consulting detective and the only friend he had ever made were immortal, and nothing could separate them now.


End file.
